


of home

by smithens



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-celibate Enjolras, Anachronistic Fruit, Canon Era, Childhood Memories, Friendship/Love, Hand Feeding, Implied Sexual Content, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-08
Updated: 2017-10-20
Packaged: 2018-11-10 20:14:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11133936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smithens/pseuds/smithens
Summary: During the autumn of 1830, Enjolras and Combeferre return to their shared hometown.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i offered to write ao3 user dashieundomiel something when she was stressed with finals and did not get around to finishing it until now. she requested:
>
>> enjolras and combeferre go back to their small southern village in early fall. there is an apple orchard. love confessions are made. smooches happen
> 
> this is not compliant with the rest of my 1830 verse for the sole reason that usually my enjolras and my combeferre don't come from the same place; otherwise, the leading up events are mostly the same. if you're unfamiliar - enjolras sustained injuries during 1830 and combeferre cared for him, featuring feelings.

The journey – by hired coach, a mode of distance transport to which Combeferre was previously unaccustomed – is agony.

They sit beside one another, not across; each with enough space so as to make an absent touch of the shoulder seem intentional and a press of the thigh seem suggestive. With each touch Combeferre feels Enjolras relax against him, and for half of their journey he strives to make his attentions seem accidental… but with more than a hand's width of space between them, all touch requires effort, and any such illusion is difficult, surely, to believe.

Enjolras does not comment upon it, but on one occasion Combeferre sets his ungloved hand upon his knee, spreading his fingers, and he sees Enjolras cast down his gaze and smile.

* * *

It seems to Combeferre a great shame that they had never spoken of home with one another so extensively until August.

The mountains of which Enjolras told were the same which Combeferre would rise to see break the horizon each morning. The river in which Enjolras learned to swim was the same in which Combeferre nearly drowned at twelve, and the caves which Enjolras so feared as a child were the same in which Combeferre had gotten lost exploring. Yet though they grew up but few leagues apart, they knew alternate customs, spoke differently, had different memories.  In Paris they spoke of landscapes, but never names: Enjolras did not like to think of himself as local.

What might have been different between them, if four years ago Combeferre had thought to ask from which town Enjolras hailed?

* * *

There is neither wall nor toll as they approach town, a contrast from Paris to which Combeferre has never given much thought. In Paris one cannot enter or exit at will without question; in the country it is easy to be an outsider and yet easier still to encounter hospitality.

The coach passes through in short time.

The estate of Enjolras's uncle is far removed from town, but as they draw nearer Combeferre notes that Enjolras himself has acquired a new energy. His cheeks are rosier; he holds himself straighter.

"You will benefit from fresh air," says Combeferre to him, "and from open spaces. As will I."

Enjolras bows his head, his flaxen curls falling to shield his face. _Is he smiling?_ "You are right, Combeferre, as you so often are."

* * *

They arrive at the estate just before sunset: in the hours following the sky, then violet and orange, turns dark. The evening September air is cool and clean; if Combeferre leans from the window in his given bedchamber he can see the stars and feel the country air all at once, a benefit beyond what he can hope for in Paris.

After so much time travelling it is a great blessing to be alone. He can read, if he so wishes, or write, or simply sit and think without worry of intrusion: even in Paris, within his own apartment and his own bed, this is a rare pleasure. Over the past few months - full with worry and violence and suspicion - he has taken little time for himself. Here, he can do so, at least until morning.

But as night falls, he can think only of Enjolras.

* * *

His uncle has prepared two rooms for their stay.

Neither are the bedchamber which he had used as a boy, a fact which at once troubles and relieves him. This room now is brighter than his, with a full window and two oil lamps opposite one another on the walls, sparsely furnished.

It suits him, even as its unfamiliar nature is discomfiting.

Perhaps what is more unfamiliar is that he is alone. In years past this has suited him perfectly; indeed, even during the most recent spring he would have felt at home anywhere in this house, alone or otherwise — but he has spent the entirety of August with Combeferre, has shared his bed with Combeferre, has suppered with and dressed with Combeferre.

At the time the lack of independence seemed suffocating: an inconvenience to bear until he was fully healed (the day of which has yet to come) and could live in his own apartment again. In August he thought to himself: _this is a necessary trial_ , and knew that even if he became well soon his apartment would not be safe. It would have helped no one, were he to have been arrested in such a state.

And Combeferre's behavior did very little to quell his agitation.

Now, however, after days of close-quarters travel and many more nights together with Combeferre than Enjolras has ever thought he might share with anyone, his bed feels empty.

* * *

In the morning they wake early.

For Enjolras, this is from habit; for Combeferre, a symptom of agitation. Nevertheless they find one another - Combeferre in his nightshirt, examining an enduring flower bush, Enjolras dressed and seated beneath a tree - in the garden shortly before dawn, as though attracted by natural magnetism, and they sit together in silence as the sun rises above the line where earth meets sky.

As the sky grows brighter, the chirrups of insects fades; the singing of birds begins. When Combeferre looks up, he sees them perched upon branches with red and golden leaves.

Autumn has come to their hometown, and summer, as all things, has come to an end.

Combeferre thinks to himself that the progress of the seasons is a natural phenomenon: constant, unavoidable, yet comforting in its cyclicity. Civilization, he has always maintained, has its own sort of pattern of progress, but unlike nature it is unpredictable with science. Progress in men comes from foundations carved of hope; yet it crumbles and falters even in the face of a people's tenacity. When suppressed, however, it seeps into men's souls and stays there, dormant, until it can take its course: through education, through deliverance, through liberation. Natural progress is more true than forced change.

Enjolras sets his hand upon Combeferre's arm.

"Good morning, my friend," he breathes, and something about his tone gives Combeferre the feeling that his thoughts, although unspoken, were heard.

* * *

"My uncle is a solitary man," says Enjolras, his back curved over the writing desk. After but a day of sun his hair seems lighter. "It is that, and nothing more. Do not feel he harbors ill will for you, Combeferre."

"And is it a tendency of a solitary man to leave a room when another enters?"

He does not look at Enjolras while he speaks, engrossed in surveying the furnishings of the old bedchamber.

Most of the books on Enjolras's childhood shelves are ecclesiastical in nature. To even touch them feels sacrosanct — these are remnants of the boy Enjolras had been some ten years ago, a boy whose interests have changed and whose path, written for him, has been altered.

The boy who read these books no longer exists, Combeferre is beginning to learn, and the disconnect frightens him. Combeferre has maintained his self through childhood, through his time as a Polytechnicien and a Fourierist and a student and an extern and now even a revolutionary. He thinks of himself as a boy and knows he has matured, developed, since then, but remained the same person.

Enjolras at three and twenty is not what Enjolras at thirteen hoped he would become.

"Yes," Enjolras replies solemnly, "for I speak only of him. Perhaps it is also that he is in mourning, if you doubt my own reasoning - but you know my thoughts upon generality. Do trust in my opinion of my own family."

He looks up from his parchment just as Combeferre turns from the shelves.

Their eyes meet, and Combeferre finds himself transfixed by blue.

* * *

They sleep in the same bed that night, Combeferre's head upon Enjolras's chest. After August he will never tire of listening to Enjolras's heartbeat, strong and steady, nor of his breathing, constant and clear. Enjolras, tactile as ever, runs his fingers through Combeferre's hair.

Temptation swells, then wanes.

"I begrudge you nothing," says Enjolras in a whisper.

Combeferre thinks of his mistakes: how he has treated Enjolras, how he has sheltered him, how he has ignored his wants and his thoughts out of his own discomfort. How he has allowed his guilt to consume him even at the prospect of Enjolras's death.

Now that he is healed, they can have this discussion which he has disallowed for so long.

"I owe you everything," he returns, gentle for his own sake. "I owe you everything, Enjolras, and by God, I shall -"

Enjolras places two fingers upon his lips without fumbling.

"The natural progress which you have sought to develop is a noble cause, but it is not a worthy one, Combeferre. Not when peace earns men so little; nor when the consequences of neglect are so dire."

His breath catches in his throat, and he allows Enjolras to move his thumb to his cheek, cupping his face in his hand.

"And yet I believe in you, and in your philosophy - it is a terrible thing, to strike another man, yes. Should the flood of dawn bring liberation before the flash of a volley I shall lay down my arms and welcome it, and stand beside you as it comes."

"But no flood of dawn has come, Combeferre, no soaring victories have been achieved from men throwing away their guns and swords for their homeland. It is a more terrible thing to stand by while the strikes are dealt, to see men fight for themselves and their families and for France herself with pistols and paving stones, all other means exhausted, and to say, _alas ! if that man were not so brutal I should join in his cause_. A strike such as this wounds deeper, for it is a denial of fraternity and of liberty. You are above such a thing."

Enjolras's voice rises and falls as a sung hymn. Combeferre listens to his breath, rhythmic, as he speaks, closes his eyes from the moonlit room as though Enjolras were singing him a lullaby.

"And you have shown yourself to be above it, beside me and in my stead. I value your concern and I share it, as a brother in arms, as a fellow man. But this is my belief, dear Combeferre. I have expressed it to you without quotation, or reference, as it is mine, whether its tenets were shared by other men before me or not."

Combeferre could have found fault with it, perhaps, months ago, but he cannot now - cannot bring himself even to try.

"And so I have forgiven you our quarrel," murmurs Enjolras, his fingers stroking the back of Combeferre's neck with utmost tenderness. "Now that the deeds are finished. Now that we may move forward for the Republic."

* * *

Enjolras wakes with his arms around Combeferre, sleeping soundly, pressed close to him.

* * *

Combeferre wakes to an empty bed.

After he rises, washes, dresses, he watches Enjolras through the window: his hair shines in the morning sun, and his face is pensive. The moment he moves, Combeferre ducks behind the curtains, heart pounding.

* * *

"Combeferre is a student of medicine, Uncle. He begins his _internat_ in November."

"You did say so, Jean-Nicolas. And where will this position be?"

Combeferre stares into his morning tea, silent, until he feels Enjolras's knee knock against his under the table.

"The Necker," he says, "And _Enfants-malades_. I will be housed in their quarters."

He looks up to see that Enjolras's uncle is staring at him, his brow wrinkled in some unplaceable emotion.

"You will care for children there?"

"Yes, I shall."

"When I practised —"

"You are a doctor, Monsieur?"

"Ah-ah. No more of that. Here, you are family - but I was a doctor, yes, some years ago in _la Réunion_ , long before the birth of my nephew..."

Combeferre catches Enjolras repressing a smile; bumps their knees and cannot resist the expression himself.

Then he sips at his tea to calm the flutter he feels in his chest, and listens.

* * *

Enjolras retires to his chamber at mid-day, a pallor in his face and hands.

Combeferre's stomach twists in agitation: he wants to accompany him, to mind him, but there is nothing which he can do that Enjolras cannot do for himself alone. Not anymore, at least. For Enjolras, unexpected headaches are normal.

The library is musty and unkempt, with one high window: enough light by which to read, at this time of day, not enough to illuminate the entire room. It will distract him, however, from the feeling of helplessness - _is that all that it is?_ \- that he has grown so accustomed to since July.

He finds a magazine detailing navigational instruments, sits against the wall, and settles himself to read.

* * *

That night is the second they spend in the same bed, of their third on holiday.

It is a habit - leftover from his injury and subsequent recovery - which Enjolras has no desire to break.

In Combeferre's bed, however, they slept beside one another, without touching. Here, Combeferre lies with his head upon Enjolras's chest, their legs tangled together. They are so close that Enjolras can feel his breath upon his neck, hear his heartbeat.

It is a new mode of communication, of connection, beyond a clasp of hands or touch to the shoulder, to feel another man's life in one's own body.

* * *

"Years ago he was a Frigate captain under Bonaparte; to-day he manages the little orchard. My mother says that the earth here is unfit for apples — she is from Limoges, have I not told you? In any case I haven't any idea how he has maintained the business for so long on barren land, but he has, and thus my allowance is secured. Improbable as it is for this reason I do not complain. I suppose the trees will die when he does: such is the way of things."

"My uncle supposes so, also."

The estate is but few leagues from his childhood home, and yet Combeferre remains surprised that Enjolras's uncle knows of his family.

"What do _you_ suppose?"

"Ask me again after supper, Combeferre; by then I shall have made his acquaintance."

"And that of the apples!"

* * *

Combeferre's younger sister is a lighthearted and lively girl, who prattles on end before her mother and father but listens with rapt attention when Enjolras speaks. All through the afternoon and evening, her unkempt dark hair is only half covered by her cap, and there are ruby red stains at the cuffs of her sleeves. "Raspberries," she told her brother, when he chided her upon their arrival, and in lieu of scolding her further he had wrapped her in his arms and swung her in circles around the terrace as she laughed and laughed and laughed.

Generally Enjolras is not comfortable around women, young or old — and she _is_ young, small for thirteen and sickly, precocious and naïve at once. His meeting with Combeferre's eldest sister the previous winter had been brief, and little was required of him. The middle sister Enjolras has never met, and as she has married and moved away there is a chance he never will.

Sylvie finds him exciting.

"Monsieur Enjolras, however did you meet my brother?" she says first, in the salon prior to supper. "You are such particular friends!"

Before he can answer her, she is told to fix the table by her mother, and darts off.

"Monsieur Enjolras, do you like to read novels?" she says second, after they have all sat down and begun to eat.  Combeferre, beside him, has a laughter-like coughing fit. Enjolras swallows his mouthful of chestnut bisque and shakes his head. "Why! Myself, also! I have been reading François Quesnay; do you know him? I hardly know what to make of his — "

"Sylvie," scolds Combeferre, "do eat your dinner. Perhaps _Monsieur Enjolras_ would like to answer you upon economics when he is finished eating." But he beams with pride even as his mother frowns.

And Enjolras does not miss the grateful glance Combeferre receives from his father.

* * *

They go for a walk through the orchard after eating, just the two of them, arm in arm.

When they are far enough from the house that he is sure they have not been followed, Combeferre says, "I do hope Sylvie did not perturb you. She is… well, she is lonely."

"I was not perturbed."

"Weren't you? ...she wants nothing else but to board at the convent, but Mother refuses on account of her sensitivity. Myself, I cannot imagine _wanting_ to become a boarder, if provided the option — the lycée was such hell —  but it is different in convents. Besides, young girls deserve to be with other young girls. Perhaps she would recover there in ways we cannot yet know..."

The sky is pink again: Enjolras's skin has an otherworldly cast. Their walk continues until they find a tree with patches of grass beneath it.

"I never wanted to attend school," says Enjolras quietly, shrugging out of his coat as he makes to sit against the tree. "Nor did I have the opportunity, for a time. I saw myself in the quarry, and then when my father died the monastery."

Combeferre can't look away from him. His eyes are distant, looking into space as though he sees something visible only to him. It is the same expression he bears when speaking, unscripted and unprompted, to rouse a crowd, but here in the evening sun it is solemn and sad.

They clasp hands. Enjolras's skin is smooth and cool.

"Every man wished as a boy to become something different than he did. I am happy now in Paris, am glad to have known my uncle… and I would not have met you, had I stayed in Le Puy-en-Velay and become a quarryman."

* * *

He takes the cut of apple - its flesh is jagged from Combeferre's distracted use of his penknife - and bites down.

Sweet things appeal to Enjolras more than he cares to admit. Fruit is no exception. The apple is ripe and fresh, and he finishes his piece in short time.

Combeferre has learned of this vice over the years through observation; it is Enjolras's hope that the knowledge stays between them.

Of all his traits which only Combeferre knows, it is the least dangerous.

* * *

"You have —"

He doesn't finish his sentence aloud, reaching instead to hold Enjolras's cheek in his hand and rub his thumb below his lips, brushing away the little piece of fruit there.

They lock eyes.

A breeze passes.

He feels a sudden lightness in his head. Enjolras closes his eyes, then opens them, slower than a blink — Combeferre's gaze is drawn to his lashes and then to the pale blue of his irises, the dark of his widened pupils — and his lips part.

For mere seconds Combeferre feels as though he is dreaming — but his dreams of Enjolras are not like this, they are in Paris, in cafés and in apartments, where they discuss politics and philosophy, not…

* * *

At Combeferre's touch the heaviness in his chest dissipates.

And then he drops his hand, turns away to eat his fruit and look wordlessly up at the sky.

Enjolras cares little for clouds and stars alike; he watches Combeferre himself, instead. The drum of his fingers against his thigh and lift of his head to adjust his spectacles are tics which Enjolras has come to know and to appreciate, in the last months. For all of his friends, Enjolras can name habits: Courfeyrac twirls his cane in the palm of his hand when he lies, Bahorel crosses his arms and grips his elbows when listening to stories, Joly takes his pulse at his neck when it is raining and his wrist all other times.

Enjolras takes a slice of apple from the handkerchief laid on the ground beneath them and holds it to Combeferre's mouth.

Combeferre accepts, his lips touching Enjolras's thumb and forefinger; and Enjolras wonders if he felt the same spark a moment ago, in the opposite position.

* * *

At some point Enjolras lays his head in Combeferre's lap; at some point Combeferre begins running his fingers through his hair; at some point Enjolras says, wry-toned, "if it was only fresh air which we sought, Meaux would have been sufficient," and Combeferre replies, "yet man requires more sustenance than water and air, and Meaux cannot provide."

He runs his forefinger along Enjolras's lips again, then along his jawline, and behind his ear, down his neck; he feels Enjolras tremble, and thinks to himself,  _there is no greater sustenance than this_.


	2. Chapter 2

Enjolras allows Combeferre's affections.

Some deep part of him welcomes the touches and murmured words as something new: moments between them were not always so intimate. This he does not share with any other man.

Yet the novelty of this, of their sudden closeness, gives him pause. Perhaps they were intimate, before, but Combeferre was never so brazen with his affection in Paris; when they spoke in low tones it was of politics and strategy, not of memories and thoughts and emotions; Enjolras himself has never desired another so completely —

To deny himself — to _consider_ denying himself — upon the depth and severity of his emotions alone brings a quandary.

In Paris he would not have fallen prey to uncertainty. In Paris, to deny himself the world beyond his ideals, his passions, his politics: that is logical. He is strengthened for it. What time he uses to pursue "worldliness" is time undedicated to the betterment of the people.

For several years now he has had friends to engage in gaiety and frivolity in his stead. Many evenings he has sat beside them to listen to conversations upon hobbies, theatre, music, , who wore this, who said that. The things which matter so greatly, in the moment, to his dearest friends matter little to him: but he cares, for they are his friends. To see them pleased is like to peer into the future: a day will come when they have more times of happiness than times of danger or suspicion.

When the time came to fight — and when the time comes again — those who believe as he does stood, and will stand, beside him. Were it not for his companions in July, he would have returned home sooner, in a markedly different state.

Were it not for each and every one of his dearest fellow men and brothers, he would not be here in this orchard, would not be here with his head against Combeferre's thighs, the taste of autumn apples lingering upon his tongue and the ghost of Combeferre's touch at his lips.

* * *

"Adam Smith penned that nothing pleases man more than to recognize in others his own feelings, and that man grieves to observe the contrary, for it assures him of his fellows' opposition to his self."

"I have not read his works," says Enjolras deliberately. Combeferre strokes the crown of his head with the palm of his hand, finds that he likes to see Enjolras close his eyes and stretch into the touch.

"No," he replies. "I should suppose you have not, for I read him in English. _The Theory of Moral Sentiments_. Much of his work is in economics, but the volume which I refer to is… more humane, might I say."

The wind picks up, briefly, before dissipating. Leaves above them shudder, but none fall. The air becomes calm.

"And your own opinion?"

"On sympathy?"

A beat.

"On pleasure, Combeferre."

* * *

Conversation quickens, lulls, quickens again. Even in silence they speak to one another: with the touch of a palm, or a tilt of the head.

The sun begins to set.

* * *

"Are we," says Enjolras, brow untroubled, his eyes still closed. Combeferre twirls his fingers in his hair and looks at his face, at his rosy cheeks and long eyelashes. "...such _particular_ friends?"

"Sylvie is observant, and too often insolent for it."

"I daresay, I prefer it when you answer the questions which I ask."

But in this case Combeferre finds he cannot, and they sit with one another in silence.

* * *

Enjolras has long suspected, without malice or ire, the nature of Combeferre's affection.

Such a trait seemed cause for deeper kinship between them, something in common outside of beliefs or of reading or of history or of political opinions — something more personal. He himself has never sought the particular _company_ of anyone, but cannot stomach the thought of a mistress, or of marriage. His vows were to his motherland and to his comrades who believe in her as he does.

Combeferre has vowed the same, but he lives neither in temperance nor abstinence, is neither repressed nor deprived. He has had companions; he presses the boundaries of the world in which he must reside. He never seems to be lonely, is prone to fantasy, spend his time wisely and is the best sort of friend which a man could desire. If it is, indeed, men with whom he shares and satisfies his deepest desires, so be it.

Some things, Enjolras considers to himself, ought not be interfered with.

* * *

At times like these — here, bathed in evening sunlight, surrounded by the long shadows of apple trees, calm and quiet — Combeferre wishes to himself that he could know Enjolras's thoughts without asking, without guessing.

It stands that his guesses are normally accurate; on the off occasion when he is wrong, it takes but little discussion for him to understand. To speak feels onerous, but where just moments before he could touch Enjolras's wrist, look in his eyes, and understand him, something in him now has clouded.

Enjolras appears almost to be sleeping in his lap, but he knows this is not the case.

Combeferre strokes his hair and feels warmth in his chest at the resulting smile.

* * *

Some things too, Enjolras knows, ought be discovered and explored.

* * *

"Perhaps we might return soon," says Combeferre, a slowness to his voice, an apprehension in it; nevertheless he sounds content, even happy.

Enjolras cannot shake the feeling that he is waiting for something, and neither can he pretend that he himself is entirely patient.

* * *

But they stay there even after Combeferre mustered up the courage to interrupt their comfortable silence, just sitting.

It is not unlike how they sit with one another in Paris — or did, prior to Enjolras's injury. To share company in productive silence was always relaxing, for Combeferre, a pleasure to partake in at the end of a stressful day. On some Saturdays, they would share a pastry or simply bread and cheese between them, retire long past sunset after an evening of writing or reading or thinking in one another's presence. Combeferre sat, often, at the edge of Enjolras's bed, for Enjolras could never be coaxed from his writing desk.

And yet it is unlike that, Combeferre thinks, for here, now, they are nearly entwined, settled on the ground, talking only a little and neither reading nor writing.

Here, now, they are intimate.

* * *

_Come now_ , thinks Combeferre, chastising himself.

But he knows his heart and the tenderness of his emotions, for he has felt something in him akin to this before.

Each time it is different, a little at least; the feeling builds in him in moments or in months. It is physical first, or it is intellectual first. Sometimes he has dreams, or is awkward during personal encounters; sometimes a connection simply _happens,_ in a manner unscientific and unchartable. Nothing upon which one could lecture or devote study.

He cannot remember how it happened, with Enjolras, with him. It has been years since they met, fewer since they began to like one another. Now, Combeferre knows only what he feels.

* * *

"In your philosophy," says Enjolras, and Combeferre mourns the loss of his weight in his lap as he shifts to sit upright, "as you did not answer me before, Combeferre, although I did not mind your _distraction,_ and I shall endeavor never to accept fruits from you in the future… Anyhow, my friend: in your philosophy, it is not man's empathy, nor is capacity for it, that is the greatest pleasure known, is it? What do you suppose? Grand men have explored such a question; let us, also. I have considered _liberation_."

"In my philosophy?" repeats Combeferre. He cannot look Enjolras in the eyes, somehow, and blinks up at the sunset, instead.

"Whether it is informed by —  by your Smith, or Fourier, or Saint-Simon or Condorcet or any other whom I know you to quote in argument and admire in thought — that is very well, but I do not wish to hear their ideas. I am curious about yours. Do not tell me you have no idea; I know you better than to believe such a thing."

But he isn't certain that he does, for this. In politics it is simple to see one side or another or a third or a fourth, easy to pick holes in arguments with rhetoric and reasoning, easy also to understand another's position. He will argue with Courfeyrac for hours over ideas they share, that he made up his mind over years ago, for it is an exercise that he enjoys. In that, he knows his own opinion. He does not lack opinions, he is not skeptical, his emotions sometimes are so strong as to surprise him — but philosophically he is prone to comparison and so too to inquiry, to questioning himself.

"My... _Enjolras_. "

"Every man has a creed, Combeferre."

* * *

Combeferre kisses Enjolras.

He kisses him with more ardour than than he thought himself capable of, kisses his neck and his cheek and his temple and his forehead, and allows Enjolras to hold his palm to his jaw and thread his fingers through his hair. But a moment ago they were seated, calm; now, Combeferre feels in his body a fervor and desire that he must have been suppressing, from fear or discomfort or whatever else, and Enjolras now reacts by holding their bodies close, touching foreheads between kisses, his blue eyes half-closed.

They press together in an angled embrace, no sound between them but breath and the touches of hands upon skin, no sound around them but a distant birdsong or a ruffle of leaves.  Enjolras does not kiss him in return: but he needn't, for the tilt of his neck, arch of his back, and grip of his palm upon Combeferre's shoulder is nearly too much to bear already.

Enjolras receives affection in a way that Combeferre has never imagined, not even in slumber; though the setting is dreamlike, for this alone Combeferre thinks it must be real.

* * *

He finds that Enjolras's contented, satisfied breath is almost more pleasant to listen to than his voice.

* * *

Night falls swiftly upon their return to the house of Combeferre's family, as though the Earth had waited for them before turning. As though time, in the orchard, had paused: this must be, Enjolras feels, what sentiment men mean to express when they speak of love.

By the time they have said their farewells and are settled in the coach the sky is wholly dark but for a sliver of moon, hidden halfway by clouds.

* * *

They enter the house in deliberate, careful silence. Enjolras's uncle has retired; they mustn't wake him.

So Combeferre tells himself: but there is an element to their _sneaking_ that prompts reminiscence, of his days tiptoe-ing heartsick between dormitory rooms after the lamps have been extinguished, of meeting "fifty two paces east of one block northwest" from the gates of the Polytechnique, of prying landlords and jealous partygoers.

As they walk to their chambers, Enjolras leads by a few paces, headstrong.

Combeferre imagines that for Enjolras, _sneaking_ has never been imagined in such a context.

* * *

Something has changed.

Combeferre, by appearance and by character, is no different in the night than he was in the morning, but _something_ \- in the air, in the light - has changed.

His skin, his hair, and even the shape of him feel, to Enjolras, different. And yet it is not so drastic as though he underwent metamorphosis, transformed by a given kiss, by an embrace. He is still Combeferre, with the same spectacles, the same coat and trousers, the same suntanned brown skin and the same dimple in his right cheek when he smiles at Enjolras in the mirror.

Enjolras watches him undress from his seat near the window, his breath caught in his throat, and somehow, cannot stop himself from looking — watching.

It is he who is different, not Combeferre.

* * *

Combeferre follows Enjolras to his bedchamber without second thought, and he feels a stutter in his heartbeat when Enjolras turns his head to smile. As always it is charming to look at, and when Enjolras enters the room Combeferre closes the door behind them with those lips still on his mind. Enjolras is still dressed in his evening clothes.

They are alone. Here, he has no distractions.

Need he remind himself: this is _Enjolras_.

* * *

"Perhaps I find Smith's hypothesis agreeable after all," says Combeferre, peering up from Enjolras's worn childhood volume of _Catéchisme national français_.

Across from him, Enjolras is finding the process of undressing himself monotonous: upon the insistence of his uncle he wore doubled waistcoats along with a stock and cravat to supper. It was not comfortable, but at some point in time between chestnut bisque and lying in Combeferre's arms he stopped thinking of it.

Now it is rather bothersome, if only because he is tired, again, perhaps a little frail, and his fingers cannot cope with so many buttons, buckles, and knots.

"I never meant to imply you found it disagreeable, Combeferre, only that I myself do not find it so applicable to men today." He fumbles with the last fastening of his waistcoat. Combeferre sets aside the book and rises, with such a true, tilted smile that Enjolras cannot help but relax.

* * *

Combeferre takes Enjolras's hands in his own and presses them to his sides, then takes up the task of disrobing for him.

Some part of him registers it strange, to dress or undress a man from the front rather than the back, but he does not voice the thought: that is not the sort of philosophy he wishes to discuss tonight.

"Then - is it not applicable at all, empathy? Or do you find that men today are more preoccupied than those of sixty, seventy years ago?" he leads, as Enjolras shrugs out of his now-undone upper waistcoat. The embroidery shimmers.

It dawns on Combeferre that he has never seen Enjolras wear such a thing as this before tonight, and Combeferre has seen Enjolras at balls.

"Some men," replies Enjolras. "Indeed, I should say in general, at this time man is distracted from his brothers, for neither the joy nor suffering of other men rouses in him a desire to enact change, and you may rightfully call that a lack of empathy. But it has been this way, for men are discouraged from supporting one another in any manner which may enlighten them to the true cause of their suffering - myself, Combeferre, I thus believe that without that liberation it is impossible that empathy be the truest happiness. Without it men experience little else but obfuscation: the knowledge that there is wrong, but not enough to know why, and the lack of power to change circumstance. Do you not believe that a genuine education, of history and literature and sciences and mathematics and thus of man's nature, is the most just foundation for one to understand another?"

Combeferre remains silent, for a moment, processing Enjolras's words and allowing his fingers to linger at the topmost button of Enjolras's second waistcoat. His cheeks feel warm.

"Perhaps," he says finally, "you have misunderstood the question."

* * *

Enjolras will not pretend to understand Combeferre when he does not: that is not the nature of their friendship, and they enjoy one another's company without pretext, effortlessly.

And yet he resists acknowledging the comment in its entirety.

¨You do not," continues Combeferre, as he makes neat work of undoing the remainder of Enjolras's waistcoat buttons and pulling it off of his shoulders, ¨suppose that liberation is only true if it is shared, held in common?"

He looks Combeferre in the eye, then, and catches in his expression a hint of playful satisfaction. Combeferre moves his hands to his neck and touches two fingers underneath Enjolras’s chin, pressing up as though to examine his throat, then drops his hands to his sides.

A pause.

"Perhaps I have misunderstood after all," replies Enjolras, and although he has lowered his gaze, he does not miss once more the sly smile at Combeferre's lips.

* * *

They do not finish the discussion: as much as Combeferre wishes to, it can wait until morning.

Enjolras stands before him now with his braces slung around his hips, in shirtsleeves. Combeferre turns from him as he continues, but does not bar himself from picturing what motions Enjolras makes behind him.

* * *

Prior to bed, Enjolras makes a point to himself of drawing the curtain and latching the door. It is a precaution he recalls taking in markedly different circumstances as a child, primarily for reading books which he wasn't meant to.  The action now nonetheless prompts in him a sense of nostalgia, one which wanes when he looks to the bed and sees Combeferre, lying straight upon his back as always, waiting for him.

A locked door signifies that he has something to hide, he knows, but his time in Paris — his political renaissance, his newfound company, and his need, at times, to avoid the police — has lead him to believe that _hiding_ does not always mean one is _wrong_.

* * *

The temperature beneath the linens feels colder the moment Enjolras joins him in bed, and when Combeferre reaches across to touch him, palm to cheek, he knows why.

Come winter he will worry more, he thinks, now that he knows so intimately the feel of Enjolras's skin without fever.

* * *

"I did not answer you earlier."

They did not fall asleep immediately, and after some many minutes of lying in silence with their eyes closed, Enjolras welcomes the initiation of conversation. Combeferre breathes as though he something more to say, deep and long, steeling himself.

He waits.

A moment passes, then:

"Therefore I shall now, Enjolras. I do not think it worthwhile to become preoccupied with the opinions or - or, phrases, of others, but it is so that you are my dearest friend, my most intimate, and I am…"

Yet more silence.

"You love me," says Enjolras, with the same sense of gravitas and valour he has felt speaking to crowds from behind barricades, and too the same lack of control - as though his thoughts are spilling from his mouth without his own sanction. But he finds that here, unlike July, the words stop there, and he cannot continue, aloud or otherwise. The few inches between them feel like a chasm: Enjolras recognizes the feeling in his gut as want, and he shifts in bed that they may be closer.

"I love you," murmurs Combeferre. "Yes, that is right."

* * *

"Combeferre," begins Enjolras, but Combeferre presses his fingers to his lips before he may continue. The reach is a little awkward, Enjolras makes a noise of surprise, but when Combeferre moves his hand it is only so that he may brush his thumb along Enjolras's lower lip, so that he may caress Enjolras's sloped jaw —

Enjolras bridges the remaining gap between them to hold Combeferre's waist, his fingers taking up the fabric of his nightshirt and twisting it.

Combeferre knows, already, has had the thought on the back of his mind since the morning after their arrival. It does not matter what Enjolras feels, nor how he expresses it, whether he gives or receives or speaks or listens, for Combeferre _knows_ already.

But he knows something else, also.

* * *

In Paris, things will change again; such intimacy between them cannot last so. In the country it is different: to view mountains along the horizon, to breathe fresh air, to walk through fields and sit near flowing streams and lie together in orchards, without care, without tribulation. One might almost forget what he fights for.

One might almost forget that there is a world beyond his want.

But they are not back in Paris, not yet, and so Combeferre kisses Enjolras once more.


End file.
